Byline: Divine Design

Buford Youthward

Imagine an image divine.

Trying to express our own consciousness we often stumble upon some universality that impresses on our subconscious.

So long as we are mortal, reality will always be temporary.

Fryin' high like oatmeal in the sun I occupy consideration, reconsideration. Senses over sensed about such nonsense. I theorize theory without context is bullshit.

The pudding without the meat ain't no treat. I take it to the shed, when all is done and said, who's to say if we'd be better off dead?

We're thirty days deep into banned book month at my local branch so I drive that train to town and hit the library hard.

Witches and widows are always burning books, covering up the corrupt and courageous alike.

I say damn all forbidden books, all the while, smiling at confiscated goods. Substituting real life for a life less real, I stock, lock and rock while hot bombs explode.

An exceptional moment for the centuries, as erotic and exotic as any individual, access to this information is and must be barred for the public good, at least temporarily.

To be robbed or defrauded is nothing unless you allow it to take your mental real estate and make itself meaningless rather than meaningful.

Obliged to preserve and save something, anything from oblivion, abyss, from fire, from bliss, I can only act and fortify my reserves.

Every lesson learned, every best line memorized, devising something good and well, I'm off to face the day and make my mark.

Perfect in its purity, expressing a consciousness only I know, I deign for due process and find divinity by default.

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